nothing

There once was a time when nothing mattered, the only worries in the world were what you would be doing with friends on the weekends, finishing homework on time and being up in time for cartoons during weekdays before school. We can only look back on things that we’ve thought, things we have done with no knowledge of the future. As I write this I wonder what encouraged me to write such words, but the constant conscious flow of words keeps on keeping on. I feel at this time it is coming around again, sitting here listening to ABC TripleJ’s top 20 from the 1999 top 100 reminds me of the times spend watching rage on Saturday mornings. 1999 was the year after my father’s death, he took his own life by means of carbon monoxide poisoning on the 3/8/98, three days after my birthday, which he made as his last hurrah. He took me and two friends to Australia’s Wonderland, in Sydney, such a great day, fun road trip down, went on all the rides that we could in that single day. It was where the last picture of him was taken on the ride called the “Demon” gee if that wasn’t a cry for help I don’t know what is.
 
Any thought we develop should be recorded before it is forgotten, for that thought might change every human beings self-life path which is in turn affecting every individual’s future. We are all interconnected in consciousness somehow evolving from organisms and we’re now deemed intelligent life. People dedicate their life to researching the past, trying to answer questions that everyone keeps asking; why we exist and for what reason, we dig up relics and remains of people thousands, if not millions of years old continually searching for answers. I’m certain if these remains could speak, they would tell us that in their lifetime people were trying to seek the same answers. 
No one knows what we’re doing here or why we do it, we pro-create sure, but are we merely doing so to finally create a perfect being, could we simply be a science experiment where everyone is connected and all individual actions that are being performed by billions of people worldwide are so to create the perfect life-form, be it from a human or something created by humans that is to benefit a greater race. 

As from the perfect breeding and raising of a child their life continues where they may develop a new technology, think a new thought which will change the world, but for why do we need to change the world? So we can continue living without a purpose? The universe is a somewhat strange thing, there are many smart people amongst us who have advanced the human race since its inception. They just look like everyone else, but in reality they are a far more advanced human being that is a part of this experiment for life to continue down a more technological route. That way we can slowly learn of their more advanced technology without being too overwhelmed by these devices are and their capabilities. Is this merely ramblings of a person who overthinks too much or is there something hidden within. No doubt critics will possibly hate/like, but who makes him a professional… guess the years of experience probably knows the similarity between popular works and random words thrown together to appear somewhat believable and true.

I delved into the interconnectivity a few paragraphs ago, you may not think we are, but in one way shape or form something someone has done, or created is somehow linked to everyone. The smart phone you use, the pillows you sleep on, the cleaning products you use all were thought of, developed, implemented and created by several brains. What is the source of it all, why do we have a brain that controls our body using electrical signals? These signals have been interpreted and people missing limbs can now control a bionic limb replacement which can be operated just using thought alone. Such a powerful organ capable of unlocking itself into the amazing thing which is this world we live in. Day in day out, people all over this so called planet called “Earth” are not realising what is going on around them. Friendships made, people killed, babies born its phenomenal to think of the insanity which is Life that passes by around you.
 
What compels us to do what we do? Why is my brain deciding to develop these thoughts that I am writing down? The bigger question is why are you taking time to read such random lines and patterns that have been defined as “words, paragraphs and punctuation”? I am by no means a writer, have never written anything in my life excluding the odd university assignment. I don’t know what the reason is of it all. Over time we develop this recursive loop back to our original assignment of our atoms. The atoms that existed before such time were beyond the thoughts of the standard mind. The mind cannot determine its own path of electrical monsters which alternate the standard methods in the form of a multiverse theory. The brain of a young naïve age are able to be shown the new ways of living. From multiple years of pain comes a final destination where what should have been. Straying from this path and fighting the universe will generate a negative feedback loop where you are unable to continue.  


The people you meet along the way will change the outcomes of life where there are pathways that should not be severed. These ties will be reconnected at point in time that will be known by every interaction.
Somehow I’ve managed to write this on technology called a “laptop” who’s hardware and processing capabilities will be outdated within five years’ time and I know for sure that it’s not going to stop. Our existence yearns to be recognised for something in the timespan that everyone has here. To justify our soul within us trapped in a vessel which ages, breaks down almost as if we are not meant to get old. We should not be trying to strive for quality of life and embrace death. Letting everything go and focussing on what our goal is can create a sense of equality in the universe where the connections made over our pasts return, offering advice, friendship and the ties to bond greater. 
I like to think time travel is like when you step onto a travellator at an airport… you start walking in the same direction that the travellator is running. All of a sudden you are walking at twice the speed that you would be, but the travellator is maintaining its constant speed remaining in the past while you are moving through time at twice the speed of the travellator. Time is something that dictates our lives without its measurement we would be lost, time does not merely move forward, it moves around in a circular motion we are just forced to believe something that is fed to us.

Jump on in he said, you’ll be there in no time. This poor asshole had no idea what time was where it came from or the power it holds. “Sure thing mate” I said, I limit my vocabulary to simple words that such low level mongoloid life-forms can comprehend. It felt like an eternity, not that I knew what the hell time is, but if it was going to break the norm we may as well jump in head first. We drove past shanties, down dirt tracks, passed dead bodies that lay on the side of the road. When I questioned him about the bodies he merely directed my attention to the shiny object in his pocket. It was the shiniest of objects, approximately 3cm by 2cm in size. Its history dates back to Hitler, who apparently when stressed used to lick this object for luck. I guess it didn’t help in his crusade, he did some horrible things in his day, old Mr. H. I wonder what he pondered when he sat upon the toilet defecating into it. Knowing that sicko he probably ate his own shit or smeared it on the walls or made someone lick his ass clean while he sodomised a pig. I wanted this object, I knew from the moment I laid eyes on it. His name was Trevor, a simple man with a cleft lip and a deep southern accent, difficult to understand %80 of the time. Short in stature with the top of his right index finger missing, he explained that his “Maw” bit it off when he was a “Youngin” to teach him a lesson. I met this man on the first day of the discovery. It was in the back of my mind what I had to do with Trevor, but alas that would come in due course.

We pulled up to our accommodation, my clothes reeked of dead bugs which had made their way onto my body whilst we were driving in the open roof jeep.  “Dang, you stink-o shit”. Thanks Trevor, I needed that. Hard to believe this would be called home for the next month. The hotel looked like something you would see at the end of a horrible Americanised over the top LA action film, where the protagonist has caused severe collateral damage to surrounding buildings and as the camera is panning out while he is hi-fiving his pal/wife/partner/kids you see it. A dilapidated weather beaten two story bar/hotel between a 7/11 and a pawn shop. The hotel was called “The Half Eaten Crab”. What the hell did crabs have to do with a hotel, only the mind of a lunatic would be able to tell me, and even if he did explain his reasons I’m sure he would be lying. People get off on being fake, people are that fake that they no longer no what is their true self. It takes dedication to reach such a status, a life built on lies covered with back stabbings stuff that fuels their ego. I was once befriended by a Brazilian man named Ramiro, he built a sandcastle once that resembled the Mona Lisa, he had never seen, heard or knew what the Mona Lisa. This was the only time that I knew nothing was real.

Trevor carried my bags, two leather suitcases, filled with appropriate attire for the current climate. The current climate being approximately 12. It felt like I had been here before. There was a child selling wares on the sidewalk to the left of the hotel entrance. I made the mistake of making eye contact and then felt obliged to speak with this being of early life. He introduced himself as “Cecil”, I assumed people with such a name were immediately born as 50 year olds. Cecil was selling used toilet paper, to apparently pay for his college education. He was aiming for Princeton, you had to give the kid credit he had goals. More than what most people have now days, the sheep who only enjoy stroking their ego. “After some used paper sir?” Unsure of the child’s sanity, I quickly pulled out my standardised sanity questionnaire. 

The questions were broad philosophical questions with no right or wrong answers. Perhaps I may be interested in some of your wares, however, before proceeding with a transaction I ask if I may to be able to question your inner thoughts. I have had this questionnaire for years, painstakingly developing it whilst working in a monastery with monks high in the Himalayas. I begin to ask the first question. Cecil, if you… I black out. I can recall the sound of his keys. Keys that undoubtedly unlock various things. I wake up in the hotel, “Ya’ll lucky to still have yo appendages.” How he knew the word appendages is beyond me, this is the guy that has saved his toenail clippings for the last ten years to pass on to his kids as a family heirloom, heaven forbid he should find some unfortunate life form to reproduce with. I can only hope he is abducted by the ones who control us all. 

Thankfully my life vessel was not harmed excessively. A blow to the back of the head had knocked me out cold. The first of many to come I’d imagine. A town like Treflor was known for its random beatings, obscene hand gestures, prostitutes and drugs. I had come here to escape the madness that I knew so well. A place in my head where the conservative turn into ludicrous deformities being scraped up with god’s life spatula. Trevor had carried me to my room and laid me out on the double bed, thankfully it did not cross his mind to rape me, regardless of how pretty he thought my mouth was. I sat on the edge of the bed, throbbing headache, you know how you are told that pinching the top bridge of your nose rids you of a headache… Lies. Pure utter dishonesties littering society. The hotel was a surrealist’s nightmare, pale pink art deco ceiling, black blackout curtains, a paisley patterned wallpaper covered the walls, world war two era furniture, lamps, a terribly old alarm clock radio... no auxiliary cable support… My thoughts crossed to what the ultraviolet light might show, then to the fact that I really don’t even care… I’m going to die eventually, it may as well be from someone else’s bodily fluids. I respected the room for what it was. I had power, toilet, sleeping utensils and lava lamp. “Food’s time?” suggested Trevor. YUMMO I replied. Innards intact I checked for life’s essential items. Phone – check, wallet – check, keys – check. The time was now 19:39:23, I zoned out for 5 seconds staring at the red glare of the cheap radio alarm clock. With the way time is these days, I didn’t have any, no one has for that matter, a rare commodity that everyone is born with and eventually runs out of. With headache in head, I graciously arose from the bed. Still feeling slightly lightheaded we made our way towards the entrance to this festering hotel tomb. I quickly checked the time, 19:39:30. Trevor lead the way, told me to “Walk-en like I does”, which I can only assume meant to walk this way. He opened up the front door and exposed us to the insanity beyond. I could smell the paranoia. The hallway was dimly lit by incandescent light bulbs increasing and decreasing in luminescence randomly, it wasn’t obvious, but was enough to register a blip on the brain matter. We were in the front most room of the hotel, at the end of the hallway. Room 207. There were only 7 rooms on the second floor, we passed each as we moved towards the staircase at the end of the hallway. There was a painting hanging on the right wall in between rooms 203 and 201. Odd numbers on the right, evens on the left. My brain made me stop and view it. Trevor somehow realised I had stopped following, turned around and interrupted my locked gaze on the painting. “Dat dare be the old times, when Treflor di’nt allow no blackies. Dat’s tha hangin’ tree.” 

Now I’m not racist, but something tells me that this was a hate painting, I think it was Trevor. It depicted a sole tree, between crops of corn. The corn was dead, the tree was dead, there was a human figure depicted in the image hanging from the tree. His face concealed with a hood. I noticed some numbers written on the hood of the victim. 12 1 39 65 3. I assumed this just to be a prisoner number or some such nonsense. I felt the pangs